Answering the Christmas Challenge
by starofoberon
Summary: AU: They've kept each other alive and sane by playing logic and word games. Maybe it's time for them to get serious? A Christmas gift for Teamshemar through CCOAC.


A/N 1: This story is a (very late) Christmas gift to Teamshemar through the exchange on CCOAC. Her pairing was Reid/Maeve. Her song was "Silent Night." Her Christmas-y prompts were walking in the snow, hot chocolate, and a Christmas baby. I've included all items. Here's hoping that everyone's holidays are merry and bright, particularly Teamshemar's.

A/N 2: Usual disclaimers, characters not mine, yada yada. Thanks as always to Esperanta, who always makes me look as if I know what I'm doing.

**Answering the Christmas Challenge **

Light broke through the darkness, and a familiar shape stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the brightness of the hallway. She was slender and beautiful and even from where he lay, he could smell the orange-ginger body lotion she favored.

"Hey," he murmured sleepily at her, and fumbled among the Green Bay bobble-heads on the nightstand for the switch to the lamp.

"Hey," she replied with a dazzling smile. She peered around, assuring herself the other bed was unoccupied, before she slipped all the way into the room. She left the door wide open behind her. "Happy Christmas Eve. Awake already?"

A ruffly, high-necked, floor-length nightgown of cream-colored satin covered her graceful body. Her hair—grown out now to her shoulders after her brain surgery two years before—was caught back with a piece of ribbon that matched the gown. As far as he was concerned, the world could have its busty babes in filmy lingerie. Give him the breathtakingly smart Maeve Donovan in something fetchingly Victorian, and he was a happy man.

"Maybe," he admitted. "Might be awake. Might still be dreaming. I think I just saw an angel."

It wasn't clever dialogue. For all his intellect, he'd never been one of those guys for whom sparkling witticisms came naturally. Smooth romantic moves and double-entendres always seemed to hang maddeningly just out of his reach. Apparently that didn't matter to Maeve, which made it all the more amazing. She blushed like a nineteenth century schoolgirl.

He'd been the runt, the scrawny preteen who'd spent a sizable chunk of his high school career stuffed in one locker or another. His friends and family had accepted early on in his development that Spencer Reid would never be the kind of kid caught sneaking chicks into his room. Hell, he'd agreed with them! He'd watched with bemusement as his more normal cousins joined battle every year with the older generation, whining, "But why?" when the aunts and uncles laid down the law: _Going together or not, you don't share a room under my roof until you're married._

This year, it was at last his turn to lose the argument, which was how Reid had found himself in Wisconsin, on a fold-out cot in his high-school sophomore cousin Wyatt's frankly creepy green and yellow temple to Slipknot and the Packers. Maeve shared a room with his preteen cousin Missy and her "Frozen" obsession.

"Mind if I sit down?" Maeve whispered.

"It shouldn't be a problem as long as the door's wide open," he said. "How's the world of—"

"No," she snapped. "Do _not_ sing 'Let it Go' at me." Then her face softened and she smiled. "I've been in the kitchen, talking to your mom, since a little after nine."

_Nine? What the hell? I don't sleep that late!_

Belatedly, he realized that he had no idea what time it was. Wyatt, like the little narcissistic nihilist in training that he was, slept with the shades drawn all the way down, so Reid didn't even have the sun as a clue. He peered around the room in search of a clock and rose up on one elbow to reach for his cell.

"It's almost eleven," Maeve said, anticipating him. "And, Spencer, it snowed most of the night. It's so quiet and beautiful outside, and so bright it's like having your retinas stabbed by diamonds."

Only his Maeve could make even _that_ sound magical!

And come to think of it, where was Wyatt?

He must have started looking around, because Maeve said, "Wyatt's out clearing the driveway and the front walk. If you listen, you can probably hear the mournful scraping sound, like an eerie warning in a Poe story."

Reid grinned. "The Tell-Tale Shovel?"

"Something like. If you ever get around to dragging your skinny butt out of that bed, we could go for a walk in the snow."

"In the snow?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Don't be a weenie, Spencer. Most of the sidewalks are already clear. We can walk and talk and be really disgusting with the PDA, you know?"

He thought about that. "Sure," he said finally. "I'd like that."

"Thought maybe you would," she purred. She popped out of her chair and headed for the door. "Oh, and I have your challenge for the day."

That had him sitting up straight in an instant. Every nerve ending tingled with anticipation as he leaned forward, intent on each word she spoke.

Calmly, as though discussing the laundry, and without consulting any notes, Maeve Donovan recited what sounded like a random string of words, riddles, and advanced mathematical equations at him. Then she beamed.

"Go," she said.

"Don't you mean … _'Let it Go'_?" Reid replied.

Her eyes widened, and she breathed, "Why, you—!" With a teasing, naughty-little-girl grin, she yanked the ribbon from her hair and flung it in his direction. "Get dressed. We're taking a walk—and I'm going to need a solution."

"Bring it," he said.

His mind focused on her challenge, he scrambled to dress. By the time he was standing before the mirror, running his fingers through his hair—he'd misplaced his comb—he had reduced her challenge inputs to a string of 24 letters. The first, eleven letters long, spelled FREE PICCOLO, which made sense; Maeve had played flute and piccolo throughout high school and college, and even now relaxed playing joyous Bach pieces on her flute. He hoped that this meant she'd bought herself a piccolo—while Reed had looked at them briefly, he'd chosen something else as his main Christmas gift for her. (But not a ring; he hadn't found the right one yet, and everything had to be perfect.)

The other string, the string of 13 letters, was a bit of a puzzler: _AABBCHIMRSSTY_

The words could spell CHRISTMAS and BABY, but that—at least the "Christmas" part of it—was just way too obvious. There was nothing obvious about Maeve. Besides, either way it wasn't a complete sentence—not that she'd specified that this was a full sentence.

The last thing he did before he left Wyatt's room was to pick up the white satin ribbon. He inhaled the orange-ginger scent before he folded it carefully and put it in his pocket.

**~ o ~**

Challenges had brought them together. Originally, the challenge had been to determine the cause of the debilitating headaches Reid had suffered. As they found ways to minimize the headaches, the challenges, a combination of math, logic, code-breaking, and puns—and anagrams, always an anagram—had become a form of flirtation.

In the weeks after the tragedy that brought them together and had almost separated them forever, as Maeve lay in an induced coma following a series of delicate neurosurgeries, Spencer had sat beside her bed all day and all night, fashioning puzzles aloud to keep himself from breaking down in despair at losing the woman he believed to be his soulmate.

The day that she first stirred, blinked, and responded to external stimulation, he'd stood back against the wall, out of the doctors' way, holding his breath and coming as close as he ever would to praying. Her beautiful blue-gray eyes had searched the room until she located him. She had smiled, just a little, and whispered, feebly but with determination, "Whirl the drone, fathead."

The surgeons around her had sighed almost audibly in disappointment at that bit of apparent nonsense, but Reid had actually leaped and punched the air. "Yes!" he had crowed, as tears of relief streamed down his face.

The challenge he'd whispered to her only an hour earlier, to be completed correctly, had to be expressed as a complete sentence (_in English—one had to be precise!_) that would also be an anagram for the answer, which was one of the authors of _Principia Mathematica,_ Alfred North Whitehead. He was so dizzyingly delighted that she'd heard what he'd been murmuring by her bedside that he didn't even disqualify it (which he could have, because, _come on_, _the last four letters are identical, 'head,' and even in the same order_).

**~ o ~**

The sun shone so fiercely on the fresh snow that sunglasses were an absolute necessity. The entire world seemed so fresh, so white, so dazzling that it took Spencer's breath away. Hand in hand, they strolled along with no particular goal in mind. Sometimes they'd stop to fling snowballs at each other. Sometimes they'd stop to kiss, right there on the public sidewalk in plain sight. Reid had survived thirty-four years by being ever so discreet, but on this day, in this little suburb, beside this utterly perfect woman, he threw caution to the winds. He wasn't an FBI agent, and she wasn't a geneticist. They were the stars of their own daffy romantic comedy.

Meanwhile, a part of his brain remained in high gear: if not CHRISTMAS BABY, then what?

CHARMS BY BAIT?

Although she'd arrived at his uncle's house already laden with gifts, Maeve kept ducking into little mom-and-pop stores—she was obsessive about supporting local small businesses—and rarely left without buying more … stuff.

BASIC BRA MYTHS?

By the time they arrived at the main drag of that particular little suburb, Spencer felt pumped up on—no, intoxicated with—holiday spirits. All the street lights and utility poles were wound around and around with imitation holly and strings of LED lights in red, green, and white. A wireless PA system filled the air with holiday songs. Reid swung his beloved around and she twirled into his arms, her eyes sparkling. Last-minute shoppers and children celebrating their freedom from school, stared at him and Maeve. They smiled, giggled, and pointed. Three people actually snapped pictures of them.

_Hello_, he thought at them. _Take a look. My name is Spencer Reid, and I am crazy, stupid in love._

MY HABIT'S CRABS. (Well, at least it was a sentence. Sort of.)

"Look," Maeve said. "Ye Olde Custom Cocoa Shop. How 'oldy' do you think their hot chocolate is likely to be?"

CASH MY RABBITS. (Another sentence, more or less.)

"We can find out," he said.

She dragged him in by his coat sleeve. "Sit, sit," she said with a giggle, steering him toward an old-fashioned table and chairs like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting of an ice cream parlor. A different sound system from the one on the street played simple renditions of classic carols on antique instruments: harpsichord, lute, recorder and rebec. Delicious aromas hung in the air, blending with the smell of imported coffees and teas: orange and cinnamon, almond and clove. "I'll find us something special," she said.

After she stepped over to the counter, he surreptitiously took out his Bureau smartphone and plugged in the term, "Christmas baby." Maybe it was something she wanted? A tradition that she wanted to participate in? A holiday song that he hadn't heard of—but maybe she wanted to play on the piccolo that he hadn't bought her?

One search engine suggested babies in Santa hats and the song, "Santa Baby." The baby Jesus was available as a figure in a wide assortment of nativity scenes, new at Amazon or used on eBay for almost the same price.

"Baby Christmas" yielded even fewer useful suggestions. There were videos on YouTube of babies' first Christmases, but there seemed to be no new song, no new boy band tune, nor even any retro folky-Celtic things that Maeve sometimes enjoyed.

The rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" on medieval instruments concluded, and a lovely arrangement of "Silent Night" began.

_'Round yon virgin, mother and child  
>Holy infant, so tender and mild<em>

"Here we go," Maeve said, returning to the table with two foamy mugs. "Dark chocolate with cinnamon and almond."

"As long as there's sugar and caffeine, my dear Doctor Donovan—"

"In abundance, my dear Doctor Reid."

As he took a slow, sweet sip of the hot chocolate, he covertly watched the woman he loved. She still had two patches of high color on her cheeks, although they'd been out of the cold for several minutes. This five-day trip (assuming no new serial killer on the horizon) was the longest uninterrupted time he and Maeve had ever spent together—well, while she was fully awake, anyway. Sometimes he just wanted to inhale her, to draw her into himself so he would never, ever be without her again.

CHRISTMAS BABY.

So possibly … she wants to start a family? Even if she gets pregnant tonight, it won't be a Christmas baby. More like an early Halloween.

MYSTIC BAR BASH.

THY BICARB MASS.

Bicarb. She'd had a sour stomach on and off recently, and had even passed on Szechuan the other day.

FREE PICCOLO.

His heart thundered.

No, POLICE FORCE.

Police force. Night sticks. Handcuffs. Law and order. SWAT tactics. Bobbies. Coppers. Boys in blue. Thin blue line. To protect and—

"Thin blue line," he whispered hoarsely.

By nature reclusive and shy, she'd never been around large crowds often enough to need perfect control over her features. Her right eye twitched just a little, a tell that might have resulted from being shot in the right temple by a deranged grad student, or might have been there all along. He would never know, because he'd never seen her before that nightmarish evening.

"Thin blue line," he repeated, his heart racing as he struggled to understand. "Thin. And blue."

She nodded slowly. "Technically, it was two thin blue lines," she said, "but the first one was irrelevant."

A positive pregnancy test.

"And blue," he stammered again.

"Don't fasten on the color," she said. Her gaze met his now, steady, resolute. "But that's your challenge, Doctor Reid—and mine. Are we up for it?"

His vaunted genius deserted him. He reached for both her hands so quickly, so awkwardly, that he nearly knocked over her hot chocolate and his sleeve dragged in his own. "I've been planning—how to ask you—how to—" he blurted breathlessly, "because there was—because perfect, and it has to be—and the ring, I still don't—"

Maeve's eyes glistened. "If there's a question somewhere in there," she said softly, "then the answer is yes."

"Oh." He blinked. Swallowed. He felt just a tiny bit disoriented. He'd spent hours, nights, sweating over the perfect venue, the perfect words to express to this perfect girl how much he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her and have a family with her. "So—we're done?" he managed to squeak.

"No, sweetheart. We're just beginning."


End file.
